


Large

by yeaka



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Most omegas are too flimsy for their alpha king.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Regis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 10
Kudos: 62





	Large

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Final Fantasy XV or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“It’s necessary,” Clarus grunts as he stands up, voice full of finality, like it’s _that easy_ to do. Regis nods more out of obligation than agreement, even though he _knows_ his friend is right. Clarus pushes his emptied chair back against the round patio table, his half-empty teacup remaining on its saucer. Servants will come soon enough to clear it away. With a short bow of his head, Clarus takes his leave. Regis is left alone in the lush courtyard garden. He lowers his cup to the gleaming white surface of the table, and his stomach growls, but he doesn’t have any appetite for the fresh-baked scones still on display in the center. Clarus is right about what he craves.

His hands fall beneath the table, and his fingers dip into his thighs, curling up into fists. The familiar urges wrack through him, even though Clarus’ alpha pheromones aren’t around to challenge his any longer. Regis knows very well that his instincts are spiraling out of control again. The crystal puts more of a drain on them than any other alpha could understand. Regis isn’t just the leader of his pack, he’s the leader of the _country_ , and for all his frail, aging bones, his true strength is unparalleled. He needs an omega to funnel that fire into. His current collection of waiting sacrifices just doesn’t suffice. But he doesn’t want to expand. He doesn’t want to prey on any more of the small, pretty things the court throws his way. Normal omegas—the thoroughbred, well-trained kind his court seems to love—just can’t handle him. He uses them up so quickly. He leans back in his chair and lets the bright sun soak into him, hoping the fresh air will calm his bristling nerves. It doesn’t. He’d be better off holing up in his private chambers, emerging only when strictly necessary, letting no one else see the strain their king is under. 

Beyond the far glass walls, unwitting staff flitter through the halls. Regis idly watches them through the foliage. He makes up his mind: when the maid comes to clear the plates away, he’ll tell her that he’ll be taking the rest of his meals in his quarters. Clarus won’t like it, but Clarus isn’t king. 

The first Crownsguard of the morning turns a corner and strolls down the far corridor. He catches Regis’ eye quickly, as he has for some time, ever since growing into the enormous beast of a man that Gladiolus Amicitia now is. Somehow, he’s managed to become even more muscular than his father. His open black vest does nothing to hide those bulging muscles, and as usual, his dark pants dip far too low down his broad hips. Though the fabric’s embroidered with the Crownsguard insignia, it’s not _quite_ Citadel-appropriate. Regis can never quite bring himself to say anything about that. 

Just before disappearing from sight, Gladiolus glances over. His eyes catch on Regis, and he falters, donning a polite smile. His footsteps slow to a halt, and for a moment, he visibly hesitates, then comes around the glass partition and crosses the courtyard. It’s a pleasant surprise for Regis; he doesn’t often have the chance to engage with his son’s handsome shield. Now that he’s well into adulthood, Gladiolus seems to be a little _more_ handsome every time Regis sees him. His eagle tattoo is clearly, finally finished, stretching intricately across his chiseled chest, and the sides of his head have been recently shaved down, leaving just a bold stripe at the top. He reaches Regis’ table and dips into a full bow that causes his silver necklace to dangle down. Regis’ feverish mind quickly flickers to the reins of a horse: an invitation to grab and pull Gladiolus further down, maybe right to his knees.

Clarus really is right. Regis’ condition is worse than even he realized, if he’s already fantasizing about alphas half his age. Gladiolus must always be on suppressants, because he’s never given off any pheromones for Regis to latch onto, but the view is more than enough to surmise his designation and still find him attractive. He has a physique most alphas can only dream of. 

He greets in that rough, alluring voice of his, “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

“Gladio,” Regis returns, not nearly as formal as he should be. Then it occurs to him: “Doesn’t Noctis’ training usually happen around now?”

A subtle pink stains Gladiolus’ cheeks, telling Regis he guessed right. It’s surprising someone shirking their duties would preemptively go over to their boss, though Regis is hardly complaining. Gladiolus opens his mouth, drawing Regis’ eyes to the movement, and after a conspicuous pause, he explains, “I... unfortunately, I have to take the week off for my heat, Your Majesty. But I assure you, I left His Highness in good hands.”

Regis blinks. It’s none of his business, but he blurts, “Forgive me; I didn’t realize you were an omega.” It’s probably something he should know, given how close the Amicitia family is to his. But Gladiolus lets out a quiet chuckle like he’s not at all surprised.

“I’m careful with my suppressants—although they don’t do much for the heats. Most people assume I’m an alpha anyway; I know I’m way too big for an omega.” 

Gladiolus is bigger than most _alphas_. Regis can only imagine the teasing he must’ve endured when he first presented, before finding the right medication to hide the signs. He doesn’t look like it’s damaged his confidence too badly, though the fact that he’d need an entire week off for heat is telling. A proper alpha would be able to exhaust the heat within a couple of days at the most. As Gladiolus doesn’t seem to have trouble talking about his designation, Regis asks, “And you don’t have someone to take care of you during these times, a handsome young thing like you?”

Gladiolus’ blush deepens. Regis knows he’s gone too far. He can’t pretend it’s just concern when inquiring about Gladiolus’ relationship status. At least Gladiolus doesn’t seem disturbed by his king’s interest—he just shrugs his shoulders and admits, “I’m hardly an ideal omega. Most alphas would have a complex about an omega bigger than them.”

Then most alphas would be fools. Regis means to say something about that, and how it speaks well of Gladiolus that he hasn’t tried to changed himself for it—his style of dress, his tattoo, even his haircut: he’s not pretending to be soft and delicate. Nor should he. He’s all the more beautiful for how _rough_ he looks, how wild his spirit is, how clearly difficult he would be to tame. Somehow, Regis winds up inquiring, “Would you even _want_ to submit to an alpha?”

It’s too far. It’s thoroughly inappropriate. Gladiolus looks at him, and Regis sits exactly as tall as he is, used to scrutiny, though on the inside, he knows he’s acting like a dirty old man. Noctis would never let him hear the end of this. 

He vaguely wonders if Noctis realizes how incredibly precious his shield is. That shield doesn’t shy away from Regis’ boldness.

He looks right into Regis’ eyes and carefully answers, “I’d be honoured to serve the right one.” A quiet moment follows, during which Regis doesn’t dare speak in case he’s misunderstood. But Gladiolus lowers his lashes, then his voice, and adds, “To be honest... I would _love_ a powerful alpha that could put me in my place.”

Regis knows Noctis is going to kill him. _Clarus_ is going to kill him. But he’s made a career off boldly making what he knows is the right move.

He suggests, “If your heat hasn’t yet become too troublesome, why don’t you have a seat, and we can discuss this further.”

Gladiolus bows again, and this time it isn’t so formal as _submissive_ , like Gladiolus is making a point of showing his loyalty and devotion. When he rises, he pulls out the chair that Clarus had. He slides into it and breathes, “I’d be honoured, Your Majesty.”

Regis forms a traitorous smile. He snaps his fingers for the next staff member that passes, and they bring Gladiolus tea and treats and ask what else Regis would like. But Regis has already found something that can finally satiate his appetite.


End file.
